The unimaginable fierceness
of spring wind
spirals up through
my fingers and
latches on to my hair.
It twists and tangles
the strands into tight,
ropes of gold.
This is when
I miss you the most.
The breeze is
your fingers tiptoeing
along my skin and
folding me up
inside your flesh.
This is when cross-country
road trips seem imaginable
and tangible
and ineffable all at once
and the clouds merge
into shadows of past lives
where we stood
on wind-torn shores
and inside pink houses.
I bought two books
this week
and both are set in Florida,
a coincidence
as I didn’t even read the covers.
Our closeness is
magic and
kismet and
Every misstep
and turn
in this path
keeps leading
my hands to yours.
You are on my tongue
and in my ears
and floating beneath my skin.
You are my breath
and I only lend my heart
to others
because it is unfathomably
tethered to yours.


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